


Part Four: The Idealists

by Apetslife



Series: John Silver Can't Get There From Here [6]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: AU, AU from late S4, F/M, M/M, PTSD, Panic Attack, Pirates, Polyamory, Post-Canon Fix-It, This John Silver Is Not A Bristol Tavernkeeper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 06:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10633794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apetslife/pseuds/Apetslife
Summary: “I was just laying out some ideas I’ve had about where thePenelopemight sail on her next few voyages,” Flint answers, and he sounds like he’s choosing his words with the greatest delicacy, and that winds Silver up even more tightly.  Oh, he can already tell that he isn’t going to like this.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This one fought me like an absolute monster. Even in fic, Silver doesn't appear to enjoy letting people into his twisty little head. Comments are so very much appreciated!
> 
> "The side that knows when to fight and when not will take the victory. There are roadways not to be traveled, armies not to be attacked, walled cities not to be assaulted." -Sun-Tzu

For all his fond memories of the days when he’d drink until dawn and wake up on the beach sprawled among the _Walrus_ crew, sore-headed and ready to start again, Silver’s glad to be heading home. The warm summer evening is alive with the sound of frogs and insects, peaceful after the raucous noise of the tavern. He swings his leg off the side of the donkey cart making its slow, patient way up the last of the hill towards his house, and cranes his head to see the lights shining bright from the porthole-windows of the front drawing room, the one definitely shaped like a stern galley, no matter what he’s assured Madi about the matter.

They’re still up, then. Probably still talking.

He tosses a coin to the cart man and makes his careful way to the door. Rum and walking and one leg don’t always mix with the greatest of grace, but he fancies he’s getting better with practice. Still, it wouldn’t do to interrupt Flint and Madi with a tumble and a broken face at this late hour.

Shedding his coat inside the door, he can hear their voices, a low murmur, and he’s grinning even as he heads their way.

With the _Penelope_ currently careened and being properly scraped and re-tarred, Flint has been visiting them nearly every day, even on the days when he and Silver go down to supervise the work personally. And on this particular island stay, with all that had happened afloat, something seems to have changed between Flint and Madi. They’re easy with each other now, and though Flint still treats her with a courtly reverence that Silver secretly envies at times, the affection between them is clear to see.

Most of the visits end in the library, with glasses of tea or wine or rum, and rambling conversations that last long into the night before Flint takes his leave and makes his way home. He and Madi laugh and argue and talk about books, and Silver, who would rather read men than texts, can become nearly drunk just on the sound of their voices. Rich words and careful, clever thoughts, ideas so sharply precise or overarchingly vast that he’s never imagined hearing them spoken of so, in the clear-bell or velvet-rough voices he adores most in the world; it’s as intoxicating as the opium smoke that curls through the tavern at times.

He can’t wait to hear more.

Oddly enough, they don’t seem to notice him opening the study door, though, and he sees their heads bent close together over what looks like a map, the short crop of Flint’s red-brown shining next to dark braids where they’re seated side by side on the chaise. Three or four lamps are pouring light over them, and he hears Madi say something about coastlines before Flint’s eyes snap up to him and he suddenly falls silent.

“John!” Madi’s voice is a little over-loud as she sees him too, and this isn’t right. What the hell is going on here?

He stands still in the doorway and holds his hands up, palms out, and tries a smile on for size.

“Just tell me you’re not planning to run away together,” he says in his most over-the-top pleading voice, widening his eyes as far as he can. “I can handle anything but that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Flint scoffs, and if a little something inside him eases at that, well, no one has to know. “Come, sit down. How are the men?”

“Drunk,” he answers, and makes his way to the chaise, settling carefully on the chair beside it, where he can see both their faces without too much effort. “And there was a great deal of singing, which I can’t say was all that enjoyable, though it certainly was enthusiastic. Now tell me, what has you looking so serious?” He directs this last to Madi, whose lovely face is still and watchful, her eyes locked on his face as he speaks, wide and solemn, though she quirks a bit of a smile at him when he drops a kiss on the corner of her mouth.

“I was just laying out some ideas I’ve had about where the _Penelope_ might sail on her next few voyages,” Flint answers, and he sounds like he’s choosing his words with the greatest delicacy, and that winds Silver up even more tightly. Oh, he can already tell that he isn’t going to like this.

Flint has been incredibly, carefully respectful since their return. He visits in the day and returns to his own home at night. There have been no kisses, no touches beyond a shoulder clasp or quick half-embrace, and he holds himself precisely out of reach of any attempt at further closeness. It’s fine. It’s not as if Silver has any experience with this sort of thing, coming home to his wife from spending time with his lover on the sea, so he is willing to let the man navigate these uncharted waters as he feels it best.

So it’s more than a little alarming when Flint reaches over and puts a hand on his knee before continuing. Warm and heavy, it pins him to the seat.

“We’ve been making good money as a courier ship. More than enough to cover operating expenses, and bonuses, and more besides. The ship is sound and the crew has come together well, and proved their steadiness.”

“What are you saying?” Silver narrows his eyes, chest tightening a little. “We’d agreed at the outset not to go back on the account, and the men wouldn’t have it anyway.”

“No piracy, John,” Madi jumps in, and she reaches for his hand, Jesus Christ, these two people who know him so well are this cautious about telling him what they’re speaking of. The grog he’d drunk earlier is acid in his stomach and threatening at the back of his throat. “But not couriering, either.” She glances sideways at Flint, and Silver sees him nod. “We’ve received news from some of our contacts in Jamaica. The Carolina colonies are growing so quickly that a large shipment of slaves is being sent there, in a convoy of ships. Your Captain and I, we are discussing plans to take the ships and free the slaves, bring them here to freedom.” It’s blunt and direct as Madi tends to be, and spoken with that air of authority, one adopted by she whose word is most often taken as law. Both she and Flint watch him expectantly, with those eyes, clearly awaiting his response, clearly apprehensive about it, clearly set on their course regardless.

“Excuse me,” Silver says quietly to Flint, and stands up from under his staying hand. He walks to the sideboard carefully, and uncorks the fine glass bottle they keep there for guests. As he pours the whiskey into a glass, the lip of the bottle chatters against the rim. How unusual, he thinks, and forces his hand to steady.

“John,” Flint’s voice, and he holds up his hand to stay it. Gulps down his drink and pours another before turning and returning to his seat.

“There are no other, larger, better-armed and more heavily manned ships available, then,” he says, his voice so calm he feels a distant sense of pride.

“It will be a delicate engagement.” James leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and he’s very close. Close enough that Silver can see the concern draw lines on his face and furrows in his brow, the way it pulls down the corners of his mobile mouth. “We hope to have the _Vainglorious_ in consort with us, and if not, the _Lady Mary_. But taking these ships without risking the lives of the slaves? It will take strategy. Timing. A near-perfect orchestration of battle conditions.”

“And that of course means you.” Silver tilts his glass at him, and looks at Madi. “And when the British come looking for their slaves, here. Where they’ve left us alone for over a year, to avoid the embarrassment of old defeats, we will invite them in with new provocation on a scale that will demand an answer.”

“Worthy provocation,” she says, and lifts her chin proudly, pinning him with eyes that are burning bright, though her face is soft with care. “The fort is strong. The bay is full of our ships. There will be places for many on the outer islands, in the camps and refuges. We need more farmers, true farmers who understand irrigation and crop propagation, all the details and science of it. Perhaps some will be among these we save.”

“It sounds like you have it all worked out, then. Congratulations on your new venture,” Silver says, and smiles. He can feel him, Long John, lurking behind him like a cloak, ready to settle over him, keep him safe as they return to war. Already the smile on his face feels familiar, but his heart hasn’t gotten the message yet, and is pounding so hard he can feel it behind his eyes and at the base of his throat, like he’s been running.

“Are you all right?” Flint asks suddenly, leaning in a little closer, and he looks truly worried now, even as Madi reaches a hand to Silver’s cheek. 

“Of course,” he answers, though as he leans back, the room swoops sickeningly around him, as if he’s on the deck of a ship in a gale, and his heartbeat picks up speed, now absolutely thrumming. “Too much to drink,” he manages to say, and goes to stand up, to get out, but he can’t find the arms of the chair with his hands.

“Christ, you’ve gone white,” Flint curses, but suddenly Silver’s head is filled with roaring like the wind, and all he can hear is the frantic pace of his own heart. Flint’s big hands are pulling him out of the chair, Madi has his fingers in her own, but it’s all distant, blurry, as if seen through clouded water. 

It all gets fuzzy then. He’s moving, and not talking, stumbling a little and Flint is holding him up. Madi is holding cool water to his lips and he’s trying to swallow it but his throat is too tight. He can hear their voices but can’t concentrate enough to make out the words, too focused on the sudden, horrifying surety that some latent poison or lurking illness is killing him now, suddenly, in his home and without warning. He seizes hold of Flint’s wrist in terror, not conscious of why, but knowing he has to stay near.

Suddenly Madi’s calm, lovely eyes are all he can see. She is so close, and holds her palms against his cheeks, steadying him.

“John. Love, look at me. Breathe with me. We are here with you, the Captain and I. You are well, and we are all safe.”

Flint asks a muted question, and she shakes her head, still watching his eyes. She’s so calm, and everything beautiful, and despite it all Silver’s heart is slowing. He can see her mouth open on a breath and matches it, and then again. The roaring in his ears slowly dims, quiets, though he could not say how long it takes. 

The room is quiet when he can finally hear again. He’s on their bed, his good leg up on pillows, propped against the headboard. Flint is standing by the wall, hand in his, his face tense and strained as it always is when he’s worried and there’s nothing for him to punch, and Madi is stroking Silver’s shoulder gently, over and over.

“Darling, I think that whiskey may have gone off,” he manages to say, and if his smile feels shaky, at least he’s smiling at all.

“Perhaps,” she says, and kisses him, and that’s lovely, and a wonderful distraction from whatever the fuck just happened to him. He still suspects the drink, and looks to Flint appealingly.

“I’ll see to it,” Flint promises, and Silver sags with relief.

“Thank you. What a queer spell that was.” He wipes his hand across his face, shoving a few loose strands of hair off his forehead. 

“Are you entirely recovered?” There’s definitely worry in Flint’s voice, and as this is the most contact they’ve had since reaching Nassau, Silver is unwilling to relinquish his hand. He squeezes it gently. 

“I feel much better. Very tired, though. James,” he says quickly, before the other man can politely take his leave, “we do have a guest chamber just next door. It is quite late, and in case I take ill again...would you stay?”

“Please do,” Madi adds, standing and smoothing her skirts, looking up at Flint with a smile. “It would bring me great comfort to have you near, just in case.”

“Of course,” Flint agrees, helpless to deny her, just as Silver knew he would be, and he settles back onto the bed with a sigh as Madi shows Flint the room. His head hurts, his chest still feels tight and strange, and though the tremor in his hands is gone, it feels as though it might return at any moment.

He plans to ask Madi to help him remove his boot and leg, but he’s asleep before she returns.

*

Normally, waking alone in bed is not a good sign. It generally means that Madi has risen early to head into the interior, for a day or a week of what he teases her are her “Queenly duties;” adjudicating disputes, setting up new housing, managing relationships with new landowners, and more. This morning, though, he can hear low voices coming from the hall, and one is hers, one is definitely Flint’s. 

The events of last night hit him, one after another, like blows to the chest, and he has to bend over his legs to keep breathing.

Silver’s mind is often not friendly to him. He can see too many possibilities in any situation. They spool out on strings, a series of steps from each choice like the knots on a sounding line, inevitable and often contradictory and occasionally dizzying. When he had been alone in the world, the strings had been simple and easy to judge and choose between. Now he has Madi and James, and the crew, and Nassau. The entire island. And beyond them their own threads of possibilities, a vast tapestry of potential, enough to make him despair of ever making sense of it.

This news. This return even in small part to their war. The war that he had lost Madi to, if only for a time, that he came so close to losing Flint to, that he dragged them both from alive through desperate means and desperate acts and pain and betrayal and heartbreak. It leaps out from his understanding in a knotted mass of actions and results, with death looming large in so many. England will not stand by quietly at such a loss. Spain will also take notice. The flotilla itself will be heavily armed in these waters. As the possibilities present themselves to him in a relentless flood, all he can see is death. Everywhere he looks, it ends in death. 

“Here, stop that now,” James says in his ear, and he starts so violently that he almost slams their heads together. A hot cup of tea is pressed into his hands, and he only notices the chill in his fingers when the cup warms them so well. He bends over the cup and breathes the steam, unwilling to have his face seen, just now.

The bed sags as James sits beside him, close enough that their shoulders touch, warm.

“Madi took one look at you and sent me in as vanguard,” James says quietly, after a long moment, and Silver snorts a little at that. His wife has always been the wisest of women. “Talk to me. I cannot help if I don’t know what troubles you so badly.”

Silver grimaces down at his tea. Sitting here in his bed, with morning sun streaming in the porthole windows and James solid and safe at his shoulder, he knows his concerns will seem wild and even cowardly. But he can see them, the possibilities. He always has.

“If Hannibal himself were to arrive on the island and offer to lead the attack on the slavers, would you give over command?” He looks sideways at James, meets his eyes for an instant and then looks away. “Don’t look so surprised, you’ve mentioned the Iberian campaign in great detail more than once.”

James shifts a little, presses close to him. 

“Well. There are things I’d have done differently, at Lake Trasimene.”

“Jesus Christ,” Silver tells his teacup, blankly. “Fucking hell.”

“This is important,” James says urgently, ignoring him. “We have a sponsor, the men will be paid full well for their work, we’ll not need to convince them of the merits of the job on our own. The Kingston passage is well known to us and familiar. It will work, John. These people, these families, we can free them. Save them. Strike a blow against the empire. The great war did not happen, but these small skirmishes, we can still advance them.”

“At what cost,” he has to say. “When will it be enough? When will the chance of losing everything we have gained outweigh the possibility of winning more?”

James is silent, but Silver knows. Knows that he does not accept the possibility of loss. It makes him an incredible leader. A near-unbeatable commander. But no man is immortal, Silver knows this well. He closes his eyes, and nods. 

“I will be with you,” he finally says. “And I will fight in the vanguard.”

“John-”

“No. You have no say in this. I have seen you in your campaigns, remember. I know how you can get swept up in that drive to victory, how the dark can pull you in. This time I will not join you there. I will instead do all I can to keep you out of it. Here, with us. And you must promise to hear me, when I find your course unreasonable.” He finally raises his head, and James looks so startled. His face open, somehow young, eyes wide and green, and nothing about him angry. After a long moment, he tips his head. Accepting.

Silver kisses him. It’s a vow and a wish and the possibilities shift as he does, as he tastes Flint’s surprise and then his approval, as James’ big warm hand settles at his waist, so familiar, as he sees movement in the corner of his eye and knows Madi stands in the open door. He breaks away and looks to her.

She’s smiling.

*

Three hours later they’re at the beach, contemplating the _Penelope_ , who looks so odd and ungainly and helpless beached like this. She’s been scraped and tarred, and now they’re setting the masts. DeGroot is facing down the captain, and Silver is very much enjoying himself.

“If you step the masts at that angle, she’ll list on the hard tacks to such a degree that we will be in danger of swamping!” Even DeGroot’s hair looks wildly angry, standing out from his head in all directions as he waves his hands in the air.

Flint’s arms are crossed stubbornly. “Two degrees more at the rake will give us five more knots, perhaps six! Mister DeGroot, that is significant! You can compensate with the jib rigging and keep the list more moderate.”

“That angle of rake is nearly pornographic, and you know it.” DeGroot snarls in his face, and Flint’s eyebrows go up.

“Are you concerned with our ship’s _reputation for virtue_? Because I am more worried about her _speed._ ” 

Suddenly, Silver remembers something.

“What did you mean when you said we had a sponsor?” He addresses Flint directly, ignoring the rest of the conversation.

“Not now, Silver.”

“Yes now. I almost forgot, but I won’t again. If we’re restepping the masts that means more canvas, a new set of rigging. That’s not cheap and you wouldn’t do it idly. Who is holding our purse strings, Flint?”

James glances sideways at him, and starts twisting his ring around his thumb. Silver’s heart falls. He glares. Puts his hands on his hips. James sighs, and leans close, and whispers a name in his ear.

_”ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?”_


End file.
